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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503382">Wooden Floors, Walls, and Window Sills</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans'>MacksDramaticShenanigans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Coitus Interruptus, Comfort, Domestic, House Hunting, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Relationship Discussions, Smut, ian loves his family a whole lot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:22:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503382</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey blindly reaches towards the windowsill, feeling around for the carton of cigarettes and lighter. He finds both, and tucks a smoke between his lips before sparking the flame and lighting up. “We need our own fuckin’ place, man,” Mickey says around the cigarette, lolling his head towards Ian.</p><p>Ian reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Mickey’s lips, bringing it up to his own for a hit. “Fuck yeah we do,” he agrees on the exhale. He takes another puff, then holds the smoke out for Mickey to take again. He tips his head in Mickey’s direction, green eyes searching Mickey’s face for any trace of seriousness. “You mean that?” He asks.</p><p>When Mickey shrugs, his shoulder knocks into Ian’s. “Why the fuck not?” He replies, tapping the cigarette against the makeshift ashtray resting next to the pack. “We’re married now. We should get our own fuckin’ place, like real adults and shit. That’s supposed to be the next step or whatever, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Mighta been the step before getting married,” Ian says. “But when have we ever done things in the right order?” He laughs, grinning at Mickey.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>444</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wooden Floors, Walls, and Window Sills</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello hello hellooooo!</p><p>I’m back with another gallavich fic woop woop!</p><p>The idea for this one hit me, as many a fic idea so conveniently do, right as I was trying to go to sleep a few nights ago lol. I couldn’t just let it slip away, because if I don’t write it down, that’s exactly what happens every single time. So I wrote it down and then tried to sleep again. But omg then I kept getting ideas for like specific dialogue or action sequences and those are even more important to get down bc that’s the bread and butter of a fic lol. Without that shit you’ve got nothing. So needless to say, I was very tired when I woke up for my 9 am class the next day.</p><p>BUT. Boy am I glad that I did decide to keep writing everything down, because we wouldn’t have this if I hadn’t! And I’m actually pretty happy with how this whole thing turned out, so yeah!</p><p>It also kind of started to take on a mind of its own as I wrote it lol. I didn’t plan for it to be this long or to include that little bit of smut at the beginning, but once I started writing the fic just took control and what am I but a simple tool, a scribe to the story lol. </p><p>This fits into the whole domestic gallavich starting their married life thing I seem to like so much, if my other gallavich fic says anything about that, which it does lol. I’m just very happy that they finally do get to do that ;,)</p><p>ANYWAYS. </p><p>The title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUFJJNQGwhk">To Build A Home</a> by The Cinematic Orchestra because I’m a cliche motherfucker like that lol. </p><p>This is basically unbetaed, so any and all mistakes are my own.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I really hope you all like this one! :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Surprisingly, the conversation about finding a place of their own didn’t immediately occur after Mickey and Ian’s wedding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, they’d briefly mentioned before that it would be nice to find somewhere that wasn’t the Gallagher house, with shared bedrooms and bathrooms and constant chaos. But it had only been a passing comment here or there, never a real discussion about it. Never a real commitment to making it happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until finally there was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, come on, Gallagher, give it to me,” Mickey pants, fingers tightening his grip on the headboard of Ian’s twin bed as he fucks himself back on Ian’s dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s got one hand holding Mickey’s hip, while his other clutches at the back of his neck, holding him in place. His hips snap with a ferocity, little grunts slipping past his lips as he works up a steady rhythm. “Shit, so good, Mick,” he praises. “So good taking my cock like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flush goes through Mickey’s body, and his own cock throbs where it hangs heavy between his legs, dripping into the sheet below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand on his hip loosens, and Ian curls his arm around Mickey’s midsection instead, palm pressing flat against his stomach. He drapes himself across Mickey’s back, pulling their bodies even closer together, which allows him to go even deeper than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey tilts his head back against Ian’s shoulder, moaning loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s breathing heavily, right into his ear, and the sounds only turn him on even more. Mickey can feel his orgasm building up, that delicious, familiar tingling starting in his toes, getting ready to spread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian nips at Mickey’s earlobe, then smudges his lips against the space just below it, mouthing at the soft skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Ian, fuck, right there,” Mickey groans as Ian shifts his hips just so and pounds into him relentlessly. Each thrust punches out a throaty grunt or a breathy gasp, and it’s so good that Mickey’s having trouble biting back any of those sounds. “Shit, shit, shit, fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Carl shouts from his place in the doorway. “Shit, what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door slams shut right away, but it was enough of a shock that the delicious rhythm of Ian’s hips comes to a screeching halt as he freezes above Mickey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carl, get the fuck out!” Ian hisses, despite the fact that Carl had already been very quick to exit once he realized what was going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s far from the first time that they’ve been walked in on in a position like this, but it still leaves Mickey feeling a little bit mortified. But even mortification isn't enough to keep him from cursing someone out. “Jesus fucking Christ, Gallagher, you know how to fuckin’ knock?” Mickey snaps loud enough that Carl can hear him through the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever heard of putting a sock on the doorknob?” Carl yells back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another loud slam echoes outside of their room, followed by the noisy tromping of feet down stairs, and Mickey thinks they might be in the clear again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Ian says in disbelief, and Mickey’s a little disbeliving himself. How many times do you gotta walk in on someone before it registers that a closed fucking door is closed for a fucking reason? Carl should know that by now, but the kid just doesn’t fucking learn, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian drops his forehead against Mickey’s upper back and laughs a little into his sweaty skin. “Keep going?” He asks after a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey clenches around Ian’s dick, where it’s still buried deep in his ass— his answer clear. “Fuckin’ move bitch,” he says, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian laughs again before starting to move his hips again in slow, shallow thrusts at first. But then he picks up the pace, and the sound of skin against skin begins to fill the room again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except right when Mickey starts to get back into it, voices from outside the door shatter the moment </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can hear Carl’s voice— </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking Carl</span>
  </em>
  <span>— complaining loudly to someone (Debbie? Lip? Mickey doesn’t know which would be more of a turn off) about what he just walked in on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And fuck, if that isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>totally</span>
  </em>
  <span> killing the mood for Mickey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Mick,” Ian urges, wanting to get back that good give and take they’d had going on before the interruption. With Mickey rocking back to meet his thrusts like he had before, Ian had been able to get even deeper that way, and he knows they both loved that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mickey just can’t get into it. And then he hears Debbie’s voice join Carl’s, chastising him like he deserves, before turning softer as she addresses her daughter, and that’s it. “Nope,” Mickey says, shaking his head. “Nope, no. No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Ian asks, confused. His hips falter a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey huffs out in defeat, letting his head drop down against the pillow. “Stop, stop! Get off me,” he sighs, reaching an arm back to shove at Ian’s body where it’s plastered against his back. “This isn’t fuckin’ working.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hips loosens, and he grumbles to himself as he peels himself off of Mickey and pulls out. He’s still hard, and he’s irritated as hell that he won’t get to finish now, but he can’t exactly blame Mickey for calling it quits after that. Nothing kills a boner quicker than a little brother walking in on you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ Carl,” Mickey breathes, rolling onto his back on the left side of the tiny mattress. He scrubs his hand over his face, then drops it against his bare stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ Carl,” Ian echoes, flopping into the space next to Mickey. He pulls the loose sheet from beneath their legs and drapes it over their waists in case anyone else decides to barge in. Then he tucks his arm beneath his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey blindly reaches towards the windowsill, feeling around for the carton of cigarettes and lighter. He finds both, and tucks a smoke between his lips before sparking the flame and lighting up. “We need our own fuckin’ place, man,” Mickey says around the cigarette, lolling his head towards Ian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Mickey’s lips, bringing it up to his own for a hit. “Fuck yeah we do,” he agrees on the exhale. He takes another puff, then holds the smoke out for Mickey to take again. He tips his head in Mickey’s direction, green eyes searching Mickey’s face for any trace of seriousness. “You mean that?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mickey shrugs, his shoulder knocks into Ian’s. “Why the fuck not?” He replies, tapping the cigarette against the makeshift ashtray resting next to the pack. “We’re married now. We should get our own fuckin’ place, like real adults and shit. That’s supposed to be the next step or whatever, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mighta been the step before getting married,” Ian says. “But when have we ever done things in the right order?” He laughs, grinning at Mickey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey snorts in agreement and bumps his elbow into Ian’s ribs. “Nobody would fuckin’ walk in on us again,” He goes on. “We could fuck in the kitchen and not give two shits— hell, we could fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian laughs, but he can’t help but imagine how nice that would be. Having their own place. No more sharing a bathroom and hot water with a revolving door of family and friends, no more cleaning up after anyone else, no more worrying about staying quiet because someone’s sleeping in the next bed over. No more wondering if they have enough time for another quickie before anyone else gets home and interrupts. Fuck yeah, Ian could get behind that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls into Mickey’s space, throwing a leg over Mickey’s thighs and pressing his lips against Mickey’s neck, leaving a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey hums appreciatively and tilts his head back, giving Ian better access. He stubs the unfinished cigarette out, leaving it to smolder in the ashtray, and gives his full attention to his husband.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, if that’s all it takes to get you hot and bothered, I shoulda brought that up ages ago,” Mickey teases, shifting onto his side so he can cup Ian’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and drag it up to bring their lips together in a real kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hot and a little messy, and Ian’s flagging erection returns full force. So full force that he begins rocking into Mickey’s thigh to find some relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey nips at Ian’s bottom lip and breaks the kiss, his breathing heavier as his shiny, red lips stretch into a devious grin. All thoughts of Carl’s interruption are completely forgotten, the most important thing now being getting his husband back inside of him. “You gonna sit there and hump my leg or you gonna fuck me, Gallagher?” He asks, an almost challenging tone to his voice— the one he knows gets Ian going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all it takes before Ian shoves Mickey back into the pillows with a small growl. He grips Mickey’s hips and pulls them flush against his own before lining himself back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey wriggles his hips a little, desperate for Ian to quit fucking teasing and fucking get on with it already. “Come on, Gallagher,” he snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs at Ian’s hips, digging his fingers in to urge him to move and get the fuck back inside of him, but Ian isn’t having it. He tears Mickey’s hand from his body, instead tangling their fingers together and drawing his arm up above his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian presses their joined hands into the sheets, and bends down to kiss Mickey, hard, as he </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> sinks back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey hisses, stretching the word out as Ian works his way up to a relentless rhythm, mattress squeaking and bedframe rocking beneath them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere downstairs, Carl lets out another annoyed groan.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That had been the catalyst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly, they were looking at websites like zillow and trulia and realtor.com over breakfast and talking about mortgages and shit— like real, married adults.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how they found themselves in the Alibi, for a change of scenery, flipping through Mickey’s journal, which had an ongoing list of what exactly they wanted for their house, along with pages full of hastily scribbled information for different realtors and open houses and things like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about that woman plastered all over the bus stops?” Ian asks, tapping his finger against the bartop. “Shit, what’s her name? The blonde one, with the fuckin…” he flounders for a moment, trying to come up with her name or any identifying features. He snaps his fingers as it occurs to him. “The one that says ‘I sell a home every ten days.’ You know what I’m talking about, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Mickey can answer, though, V pipes up from behind the bar where she’s wiping down a freshly cleaned glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two looking at houses now?” V asks, curiosity piqued from the obvious real estate discussion and the journal spread in front of them with ‘HOUSE SHIT’ printed atop the cross in dark, blocky letters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian perks up, tearing his eyes from the pages to engage in the conversation. “Yeah,” he answers, that eager excitement Mickey loves so much coloring his tone. “We’ve been looking at all those websites and shit,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>V smiles warmly and places the dry glass on the counter before picking up a new one. “That’s exciting,” she drawls. “You looking to go far, or stay somewhere close?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian looks over at Mickey, who meets his eyes open the rim of his glass as he takes a sip and shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re keeping our options open,” Mickey answers, setting his glass down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” V replies, moving on to a third glass. “You know, the girls go to school with this little boy whose mother is a real estate agent for the Chicago area,” she says. “I could get you in touch if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Ian asks, lighting up. “That would be great, V,” he says earnestly. He reaches across the way and covers his hand over Mickey’s where it rests against the bartop, giving it a squeeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey lifts his eyebrows encouragingly at Ian, then purses his lips and gives V a short nod. “Appreciate it,” he tells her.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The real estate agent V knows had been more than happy to help Ian and Mickey look for a home. In fact, she’d been so helpful that within a week of contacting her and meeting with her in person, they’d already been able to set up dates and times to take a look at several properties around town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With their current budget, their options are, admittedly, pretty limited, but that’s something they knew going into this. The real estate agent did her best to find the nicest places she could that fit into their budget and had at least some of the features they told her they wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far, they’ve seen four different properties. And they’re in the middle of viewing a fifth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that concludes the tour,” the real estate agent says, flourishing her arm out as they walk back into the front hall of the home. “Are there any questions I can answer for the two of you?” She asks, glancing between Mickey and Ian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ve got a few,” Ian replies, and Mickey has to stifle a groan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian and his god damn fucking questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing wrong with asking questions. It’s probably good to ask a few, Mickey thinks, that way you really know what you’re getting into. But the questions Ian asks… those are something fucking else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without fail, each time they’ve looked at a place, Ian has busted out this long ass list of super specific, and, frankly, irrelevant questions. At the last place he’d asked about fireplace installations. As if they’d ever be installing a fucking fireplace. Jesus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey can tell that there’s something up with him. He wouldn’t be asking stupid ass questions like that if there wasn’t. But Ian hasn’t said anything to him indicating that he was having second thoughts about house hunting, or that anything was wrong at all, and Mickey doesn’t know how to broach the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you think so, Mick?” Ian asks, pulling Mickey out of his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Mickey blurts, head jerking towards Ian. “Sorry, what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just saying that I’m not sure this place is gonna work because of the flooring. Hardwood gets scratched super easily, and that could be a problem. If we have anyone over, especially if they have kids, or if we ever decide to get a dog or something. Getting it fixed would be a lot of money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we get a fuckin— </span>
  <em>
    <span>jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, are you being serious right now?” Mickey asks in disbelief, furrowing his brows at Ian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Ian nods, completely sincere, Mickey scoffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across from them, the real estate agent shifts from one foot to the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ian, we’re not getting a fuckin’ dog anytime soon. There’s nothing wrong with hardwood,” Mickey says. “Shit, we got hardwood at my place and it ain’t ever been replaced. That shit holds up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian makes a face. “Hardwood’s slippery as shit sometimes, Mick,” he points out. “You want me breaking my leg again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey blinks dumbly at Ian. “Slippery?” He repeats. “You don’t want to live here because the floor is fuckin’ slippery </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel his temper rising the longer this ridiculous argument goes on. Ian just keeps pulling flimsy excuse after flimsy excuse out of his ass, and it doesn’t make a single lick of god damn sense to Mickey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can give you two a moment, if you need to discuss things a little more,” the real estate agent pipes up, closing her folder. She sends them an empathetic smile, like this is something she’s seen before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’d be great,” Mickey answers before Ian can say anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He offers the real estate agent a tight smile, then manhandles Ian out the front door. Once it falls shut behind them he gives Ian a good shove in the back. “The fuck is your problem?” He snaps, turning sharp eyes onto Ian as he stumbles forward a little. Mickey’s brows are furrowed, forehead creased with confusion and irritation as he searches Ian’s face and waits for an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian, stubborn as fucking ever, juts his chin out and raises a challenging eyebrow. “What the fuck is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> problem?” He snaps right back, pressing his lips together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey scoffs and wags a finger at Ian. “Don’t fuckin’ do that shit, Gallagher,” he warns. “Are you gonna sit here and act like a fuckin’ toddler or are you gonna tell me what the fuck is wrong? Huh?” He asks. He moves his finger towards the house, pointing at the door. “This is the fifth fucking place we’ve looked at, Ian, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fifth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you’ve found something wrong with every god damn one of them so far.” He laughs a little hysterically and shakes his head. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting here. This is the fuckin’ South Side, bitch. We ain’t gonna find anything like the places all those rich fucks you used to bang have, so if that’s what you’re holding out for…” Mickey holds his arms out wide, then smacks one against the middle of his chest, twice, “this is me bursting that bubble. Raining all over that goddamn parade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian snorts, but it’s unamused. “No,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s not what I want. I’m not holding out for anything, Mickey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey throws his arms up again. “Then what the fuck do you want?” He shakes his head in exasperation and gestures towards the house once more. “This one’s got weird floorboards. The last one was too far from the L. The one before that didn’t have a fuckin’ fence around the front yard. I don’t know what the fuck you want, man.” It comes out so tired, and Mickey is. So tired. And frustrated. And confused. Ever since they’d started seriously discussing getting their own place, Ian had been nothing but excited and supportive of the idea. So Mickey, for the life of him, can’t figure out why, all of a sudden, it seems like Ian’s coming up with every reason not to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian hasn’t answered, hasn’t even tried to explain any of that shit, so Mickey barrels on. “Do you not want to get our own place anymore? Is that what it is?” He asks, running his fingers through his hair in a fit of frustration. “Do you not,” he falters, “do you not want to fuckin’ live with me?” The question comes out a lot softer than he wanted it to. A lot more pained. It hurts to say, especially since he’s so sure it isn’t true. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be true. But at this point Mickey doesn’t know what else it could be that’s holding Ian back. “Because I know… I know that shit was hard in prison. I know we got on each other’s last nerve, but, fuck, Ian. We got through that. It sucked, but we did. And if we can get through that we can get through anything, right?” He tries. Then he bristles, the self-preserving, defensive streak coming out. “I mean, we’re fuckin’ married. If you didn’t think you could live with me you should have said something before we…” He trails off, unable to even finish the sentence. Shaking his head, Mickey shoves his hands into his pockets and immediately turns so his back is to Ian. His eyes squeeze shut and he pinches the bridge of his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mickey,” Ian pleads, and Mickey recognizes the regret in his tone. He can feel him stepping closer too, closing the gap between them until he’s standing just behind Mickey. “Fuck, you know that’s not it,” Ian says. His hand comes up to rest over Mickey’s shoulder, but Mickey jerks out of his touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a short breath and tries to still the slight tremor in his lip before turning around to face Ian. “Then, tell me, what the fuck is it? Because, fuck, Ian, I’d take any of these shitholes if it means we get a place together. I don’t give a shit if it has fuckin’ hardwood floors or a fence surrounding it. It could have a whole magazine’s worth of bullets in the wall and it’d be great. Because it’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You and me. Us. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ours</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says earnestly, and he finally just deflates. “I just want somewhere to call our own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the fight dissolves from Ian, too. His eyebrows pull together, features softening before completely crumpling. He runs his hands over his face and drops down onto the front steps. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a minute, letting his hands fall into his lap as he looks up at Mickey. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I want that, too, Mick. I do. I want it so bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey moves to the stairs and lowers himself onto the top step next to Ian. “Then what’s going on, Ian?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian sighs. He scuffs his shoe against the wooden step, then looks up. "It’s a lot," he admits. "It’s a lot. Leaving home, I mean. Permanently. I’ve stayed all over the place through the years, but... that’s home. It always has been. I’ve always had that place to come back to, y’know?" He shrugs. "If it makes me a pussy to be sad about permanenty leaving the place I’ve spent my entire life, then I guess I’m a big fucking pussy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s always been a little more sensitive about things concerning his family. Despite the perpetual chaos that follows the Gallaghers and the countless shitty situations Ian’s parents and even his siblings have put him in, he loves his family. And ridiculous as it sounds, that house is part of his family, really. It’s been with them through everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey can’t exactly say he knows how that feels, because, to him, his own house has never really felt like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him. Not the same way Ian’s place feels to him. Mickey’s always wanted to get out of that shithole and never look back; he’s got no sentimental attachment to it whatsoever. And maybe Mickey doesn’t feel sad about leaving his own home, but he’s lived at the Gallagher place on and off long enough to think that, yeah, maybe he does kind of know what Ian means. Because that place has been more of a home to Mickey than his own house ever had been. They’ve made a lot of memories at the Gallagher house, him and Ian. And god knows Ian’s made a hell of a lot more without Mickey there. So, yeah, he thinks he gets it. And he can’t blame Ian for feeling that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing gingerly, Mickey cuffs Ian on the back of his neck. He lets his touch turn soft and runs his hand down Ian’s neck a little, pulling him into his side as he does. Ian goes willingly. “You’re not a pussy,” Mickey replies. “Okay, maybe a little bit,” he concedes, grin tugging at the corners of his lips when Ian huffs out a laugh. “But it’s okay to be a pussy about it,” he says, shrugging his shoulders minutely. “It is a big thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian nods slowly and leans further into Mickey’s side. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes flickering up to Mickey’s. “It’s the right thing, right?” He asks after a pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mickey meets Ian’s gaze, he doesn’t see doubt in his eyes, like he maybe once would have expected. He knows Ian doesn’t doubt anything when it comes to them; he’s in this one hundred percent, and Mickey trusts him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Mickey echoes. “It’s time for us to do this. Your sister’s been gone a year now. Lip just moved out. It’s our turn now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian purses his lips thoughtfully and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “What about Liam? And Carl? And Debbie and Franny?” He asks. “Fiona’s gone. Lip’s gone. What happens when I’m gone, too?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll be fine,” Mickey replies, and he believes it. “They’re Gallaghers, they know how to survive. Like fuckin’ cockroaches, you people. You can thrive anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gets Ian to crack a smile, and it makes Mickey feel a whole lot better to see one back on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides,” Mickey continues. “Carl might not know how to fuckin’ knock on a door before busting in, but he knows how to take care of himself otherwise. And Debbie’s got a kid, so she knows how to handle things, too. Liam’s got a good head on his shoulders, and they’ll be able to take care of him no problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s helping, reassuring Ian of all this. Mickey can tell by the way his body starts to relax where it leans up against his own, some of the tension seeping from Ian’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey keeps going. “And look, Lip moved a couple blocks away, right? And the places we’ve been looking at aren’t that far either. We can check up on things whenever you want, if that makes you feel better.” He lets his arm fall the rest of the way around Ian’s neck and squeezes at his shoulder. “Hell, we can even do some sort of Sunday dinner shit or something cheesy like that. Get everyone together again.” He looks over at Ian. “That make you happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it would,” Ian replies, nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Mickey says. “Good.” He uses the arm around Ian’s neck to wrangle his head down a little so he can press a kiss to the top of his head. “Does this mean you’ll stop with the bullshit ass complaining about the fuckin’ floors or whatever?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian laughs. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I was running out of things to find wrong anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey snorts and shakes his head at Ian as he starts to rise from the steps. “You’re ridiculous,” he tells him, and Ian just shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know, I actually do like the hardwood floors in there,” Ian adds, hopping to his feet too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do ya now?” Mickey says, lifting an eyebrow, and Ian has the decency to look at least a little bit sorry about making such a big stink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mickey steps onto the porch and waits for Ian to join him, securing his arm around his shoulder once he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This one’s pretty nice,” Ian says, looking towards the front door. “I don’t think I’d mind living here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Mickey asks, glancing between the door and Ian’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian meets his eyes and nods. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Mickey declares. “Why don’t we head back inside and let the nice real estate lady know we’re interested in this dump, then?” He asks, grinning at Ian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian grins back and tucks his hand into the back pocket of Mickey’s jeans. “Yeah, let’s do it.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Come say hi on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/brooklynbabybucky">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky">twitter</a>! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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